If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(26)

“Oh. Oh! Is that what it is?” Shaking his head, Nick clicked his tongue. His hand repeated its gentle gesture, running over his hair and down the side of his face, and Nick held his gaze as he said, “Spencer, my dear boy, what ever am I going to do with you?”

“Probably beat the hell out of me, and then f*ck me?”

Nick bit his lip and shivered. “Oh, yeah. I definitely will.”

“Promise?” Were they getting closer together?

“Absolutely.” They were getting closer together.

“Too bad you don’t have the single-tail tonight.” Fuck.

Way closer. What . . .

“We’ll make do just fine without it.”

85

Nick pressed his lips to Spencer’s. Every nerve ending in Spencer’s body lit up with the sudden rush of electricity.

Nick had never kissed him before. Ever. And it was amazing.

Spectacular.

Just like he did everything else, Nick assumed control of the kiss and guided Spencer’s mouth into motion. His smooth chin grazed Spencer’s, and he knew just how to tease Spencer’s lips apart. Goose bumps covered Spencer’s skin, his whole body tuning in to that kiss, focusing on it, surrendering to it completely.

At the other end of some undefined expanse of time, they separated, pul ing apart almost as slowly as they’d come together.

Spencer opened his eyes. Then Nick did.

And a split second later, Nick sucked in a breath and jerked away. “Oh. Shit. ”

“What?” Spencer put up a hand. “What’s—”

“Fucking hell.” Nick sat up. He turned away from Spencer and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “God, Spencer, I’m sorry, that—”

“What? I don’t understand.” Spencer sat up and closed some distance between them. “What the hell is wrong?”

“We—I shouldn’t have done that. It’s . . . against the rules.”

Spencer put his hand on Nick’s arm, and Nick recoiled, flinching away from him like he’d smacked him. Nick got up, running an unsteady hand through his hair.

“I . . . I should really go. This is—”

Spencer stood. He reached for Nick. “Let’s talk, Nick.

We’ve been able to talk about everything else.”

“We did talk about this,” Nick snapped. “And we agreed it wouldn’t happen.”

86

Spencer froze. He couldn’t comprehend anything. His brain was still too f*cked up from God knew how long in subspace, but he needed to process things. Which he couldn’t do if Nick ran out the door before he’d even had a chance to figure out which way was up, let alone what the hell was going on.

Nick tossed a few things into his bag, and Spencer really didn’t like the way his hands shook as he zipped it. Or the way his voice did the same as he muttered, “I should go. We’ll talk later.”“Nick.” Spencer put a hand on Nick’s arm again. “I don’t think this is as bad as you—”

“It is. Trust me, it is, and I need to . . . I can’t . . .” He glanced down at Spencer’s hand, shrugged just right to get his arm out from under it, and as he took a step back, he whispered, “Bonaparte.”

Everything stops at Bonaparte.

Spencer shook his head, tried to push the daze away, halfway aware that Nick might need him, might need his help, and that they should really talk about this. Hell, Nick whipped him to tears or complete surrender or both, and they couldn’t talk about a stupid kiss?

“It’s okay. I . . . I . . . If you need to back off, that’s, uh, fine, but can we talk about this?”

Nick was starting to get dressed.

Don’t let him get out of the door in that state.

“Nick, please. What rules are you talking about? Mine? I never set those rules. Yours? Who agreed to those rules?”

“Don’t go lawyer on me,” Nick snapped. “It’s not good form.”

“What, kissing?”

87

Nick rolled his eyes. “No, arguing about it. It’s not like I argue when shit gets too much for you.”

Uh, no. Nick didn’t. Sometimes the pain had been too much, and Spencer had “tapped out,” but that was twice in three months, and once had been simply due to fear of pain rather than the pain itself.

“Okay. Sorry. That was bad form. I’m just . . . trying to understand.”

Nick, who was always so together, so easily in control, looked like he was freaking out. And that, above everything else, was deeply disturbing. The anchor had lost its hold. The solid ground under Spencer’s feet . . . wasn’t. He didn’t know what to think.

Nick stood there, gaze down and shirt in his hands.

His eyebrows were low over his eyes, his lips taut, and the tightness in his neck and shoulders hinted at the much more pronounced, cable-tight tension that always built just before his orgasm took over. The same muscles and tendons under the same skin, but now they seemed somehow harder.

“Let’s just talk,” Spencer said. “That’s al .”

Nick closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “I need to think first.”

“So, what?” Spencer blinked. “You’re just going to disappear until you’ve cleared your head? What about me?